All in the Jungle
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Holmes and Watson and their daemons take it personally when the Baker street irregulars are snatched off the streets. Sherlock Holmes/His Dark Materials Crossover, daemonverse, daemon au, whatever you like to call it. Discontinued.
1. A Lion Sleeps

**"A lion sleeps in the heart of every brave man." -Turkish Proverb  
**

**There has been an outpouring of Sherlock/HDM crossovers on livejournal, and I think I've caught the fever, we need a canon version.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes liked to sleep with his face buried in the pillow. His daemon liked to sleep nestled on his back with her claws in his collar. One stifling night in July, when screams drifted down through the ceiling of their bedroom, he jerked awake, pulling his head from the nest of bedclothes and upsetting the little falcon in an explosion of feathers.

Cerridwyn was thin as falcons went, with long wings and a tail that made her look even slimmer. But when she righted herself her feathers were fat and bristling.

She screeched in displeasure as Holmes propped himself up on his elbows and scrubbed at his face. It was still dark outside, not even the most industrious laborer was awake, but his heart was beating against his ribs.

"Be quiet."

They were. The falcon rustled some of her feathers back into place, and Holmes tried to quiet his breathing. For a long minute there was only the darkness, muffling everything in its heavy curtains.

Then a voice cried out in terror, freezing the silence and shattering it. Holmes's heart jumped again, thrashing inside his throat.

He tumbled out of bed onto the thin carpet, dragging his dressing gown from the foot of his bed. Cerridwyn waddled awkwardly after him out the door to the landing. She flew up the stairs to save time and landed on Holmes' shoulder as he came to the first door.

This room was brighter than their own, because of the window that faced the front of Baker Street, letting the dim gaslight pour in between the curtains. Holmes could clearly see the twisted figure on the bed, tangled in the bedclothes.

His first step into the room was met with a snarl that sounded like ripping silk. Something large skulked underneath the bed, staring out with sharp, narrow eyes that glowed in the dim light; an ethereal fiend from the jaws of hell hiding beneath his dearest friend's bed.

But _she_ was not the monster Watson was afraid of, on the contrary, it was his nightmare that made the poor animal cower.

Knowing she would not touch him, Holmes stepped past her claws and settled onto the bed. He began to reach out to the suffering Doctor but stopped. His daemon's talons dug into his shoulder and she hissed in his ear.

"He wouldn't hesitate if it were you."

He gripped Watson's arm, feeling steel muscles underneath, and shook it softly.

"Watson."

The Doctor whimpered, fighting against the bedclothes, throwing an arm up over his face. Another snarl sounded beneath the bed.

"That's not enough," urged his own daemon. He shook harder.

"Wake up, Watson."

A fist struck Holmes ineffectually in the chest. Watson dug his heels into the bedclothes, trying to scoot away.

Holmes tightened his grip as his friend squirmed, "Watson, stop."

A foot rocked his hip, almost shoving him from the bed, the arm twisted wildly in his hands. The Doctor's breaths were thin and desperate, escaping in explosive gasps.

"Watson!"

With a frenzied yell Watson bolted upright, his hand caught Holmes' wrist in a painfully tight grip. Cerridwyn chirped in surprise.

A pair of wide, terror-driven eyes opened, stared. They were the opposite of the eyes of the creature beneath the bed; they held none of the fierceness, only confusion.

Holmes waited until his own heart had stopped beating a staccato, and Watson's breaths had slowed, then he loosened his hold and spoke softly.

"Its' alright old man," He patted his friend's shoulder. "It's over now."

Watson stared, uncomprehending, only partially conscious, but he was listening to the soothing voice. Slowly he relaxed, absorbing the voice, and the stillness of the room around him, the soft light spilling across his bedspread...

"That's right," Holmes encouraged, pushing Watson back. The trembling former-soldier complied, sinking onto the pillow with a grateful sigh. "You can go back to sleep, dear fellow."

It was astonishing how quickly the crisis was averted. Watson closed his eyes, curled up on his side and pulled his hand under his pillow, gradually losing consciousness. If Holmes did not know the terrors that lay behind the outburst, he would have called it an unnecessary fuss.

"Afghanistan," murmured a voice from the floor. Watson's daemon crawled onto the bed, sinking half of the mattress with her bulk.

"All of it?" Cerridwyn climbed down Holmes' sleeve to perch on the long back of the other beast.

"Not all of it," The lioness looked at Holmes.

"Go to sleep," he repeated.

He waited until she closed her eyes as Watson had. Her scarred, tawny body drained of tension. She laid her head on her Human's legs, and fell asleep.

* * *

**Have you ever noticed that once you've written a nightmare sequence. Its almost impossible to do it differently? Ugh.**

**See Granada's Blue carbuncle, for reference on Holmes' sleeping habits.**

**To Be Continued...**


	2. The Games' Afoot

**The game's afoot:**  
** Follow your spirit, and upon this charge**  
** Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!' - Henry V (Shakespeare)**

**I should have made it clear; this is more of a 'Sherlock Holmes with daemons' story, than an actual crossover. I will be including some of Pullman's elements, but you won't be seeing Lyra or Iorek or anything like that. **

**Thanks for all the reviews so far. You guys are fantastic. **

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Sometimes, when London sweated with thick fogs, and the mercury dropped abysmally, Watson's old war wound would ache. On those mornings, he would stay in bed until the last possible moment, when the sheets grew musty and stifling, and Marjatta got tired of prowling the room and finally licked his face rough with her sandpaper tongue. One of the downsides to having a daemon her size, was that it could manhandle you.

On this particular morning, Watson tried to evade the persistent tongue by covering his head with the blanket.

He only realized his mistake when the mattress shifted, and her heavy bulk pressed down on his chest, pinning him beneath his tent of safety. The covers began to grow stifling very quickly.

"Whimpering and lying about will only get you cold eggs and an empty coffee pot," came the rough voice pleasantly—and truthfully, Holmes' caffeine intake was notorious even at Scotland yard.

Still the throb in his shoulder and heel were persuasive. On mornings like this, especially after a restless night, he could feel the shattered bone and burning Achilles tendon. He would probably forget whose wound was whose if the vivid scars and marred fur on his daemon's shoulder weren't there to remind him.

Marjatta nudged his head and chuffed softly, calling him "silly", and it made his heart ache a little. It was one thing for a man to be crippled, but to have such a large, capable daemon permanently affected by his choice to go to war—and not complain about it—at least he could get out of bed.

He shoved her head away, tugged the wool trap off of his head, and threw back the covers to surge to his feet, just as he had been doing for the last four years.

She rumbled in approval and thumped down beside him, dragging his dressing gown to him and limping out to the stairs.

Happily, the eggs were still warm, and Watson made free with the liberal heaping of food before him. It was untouched, which said nothing, Holmes could have been there or not and there wouldn't be a dent of difference in the meal.

"At least he wasn't up all night." The lioness sniffed at the cold ashes in the grate.

"You don't think we disturbed him last night then?" Watson asked, recalling vague memories of his shadowy room and thrashing amongst the bedclothes.

Marjatta suddenly found the bear-skin rug quite fascinating, and absently tossed one of the paws about. The claws skittered loudly against the floorboards.

"He did hear us," Watson muttered.

"It was alright," insisted Marjatta. Her golden eyes flickered to his face as it reddened a little. "He wasn't angry."

"Of course he wasn't," Watson returned. For someone so socially incompetent, Holmes could be oddly thoughtful. It wasn't the first time he'd rescued them from nightghasts and imagined ghazis.

He'd finished breakfast and was already contemplating whether he should dress, or spend the morning lounging about in his dressing gown when Holmes finally made his appearance.

And Holmes always made an appearance; it wasn't enough for the detective to enter a room, by his inherent nature as a showman he became the focus of whatever room he entered. The fact that he was tall and brooding helped too.

There was a spectacular thump, followed by voices, both from his bedroom, and he swept in. wrapped tightly in his dressing gown. Cerridwyn was huddled on his shoulder, her feathers ruffled and her eyes bleary.

The reason for his sudden motion followed at his heels, wielding her wash cloth.

"…and I will not have my home turned into a poor house!"

Holmes growled and strode to the mantelpiece, clawing amongst the debris for a cigarette.

"All times of the night and day," Mrs. Hudson continued. "I can put up with respectable businessmen, Mr. Holmes. But when a herd of children tries to break the door down, tracking mud…"

"What mud?" Holmes muttered, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You haven't been cleaning mud." Cerridwyn tilted her head to inspect the landlady's apron.

"It's all over the stairs," retorted her daemon, to which the little falcon responded by nonchalantly rustling and preening. The Koala looked put out, but maintained his perch on his human's shoulder.

"I haven't had a chance to start on it yet. It will give me another half hour of work. Mr. Holmes, you must learn to keep your urchins in check!"

"What on earth is going on?" Watson lifted his voice from the couch, earning the gaze all the eyes in the room.

"We had a messenger," Holmes mumbled around his cigarette. "And I would have been able to speak with him if this woman hadn't chased him outside with her broomstick."

Mrs. Hudson, well accustomed to the dry wit of the World's Only Consulting Detective, did not miss the veiled allusion to witchery. The washcloth smacked Holmes fully in the face, sending the falcon into a screeching flapping storm to perch on the nearest chair.

She explained more carefully as Holmes spluttered. At six-o-clock this morning Doctor, I found one of his urchins sneaking about the sitting room. The boy didn't even bother to wipe his feet or see that his daemon did; tracks all up and down the stairs. I didn't see it until I came up to collect your dishes."

"It's only light silt, Mrs. Hudson. Your carpets aren't' ruined. I'm going to go and find him," Holmes bypassed her distress, searching for a dry cigarette. "And as your morning is free my dear Watson…"

Marjatta lifted her head in interest. Already their ache had begun to subside with the fog.

"Which part of London does the silt come from?"

Holmes smiled, and tossed his used match into the grate, "get dressed, my dear Watson. Wiggins never visits before eight unless there is something urgent afoot."

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**I'm going for shorter chapters this story round, it helps me update faster. **

**And Mrs. Hudson's daemon is a little exotic, but koalas are very good mothers, and she fusses over her lads so much I just couldn't help myself. **


	3. Size of the Dog

**"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." -Mark Twain**

**Thanks to Pro-prodigy for acting as sounding-board and irregular-expert. Any awesomeness is due to her.  
**

**And thanks for the reviews! You guys make me unduly giddy and I hope you enjoy!  
**

Wiggins' daemon settled during a burglary. Mr. Holmes had climbed into a back window and three of the lads were standing guard, making sure no coppers came around and found it.

Wig figured that he and two others were enough to distract even the fastest yardie. They didn't expect a hired goon with a gun and a large, snarling wolf of a daemon to interrupt the game.

It was Agnes who saved them. One instant she was a rat on his shoulder, and the next she'd changed herself into a dog and charged the larger daemon.

The irregulars were a pack mentality; naturally the other two daemons followed their leader. The wolf and his human were sent yelping away with a terrier, a bulldog, and a mastiff pup on their heels.

With the danger averted and Mr. Holmes safely on his way back to the Doctor, Wig stopped to pick her up and replace her on his shoulder. Agnes looked at him with sheepish brown eyes.

"I think I'll be too heavy to carry from now on." She said, and he carefully stroked the tan fur that stood in ragged tufts all over her. She had the solid, short build and dark muzzle of all border terriers. And her sharp little teeth flashed a white grin at his delight.

He was more than usually envied by the other lads for a few weeks, and Agnes nearly wagged her new tail off with delight when Marjatta congratulated her. Whenever the lads went to Baker Street their daemons liked to sit with the lioness. Mr. Holmes daemon was always roosting on some piece of furniture, dark and foreboding. But the Doctor's was quick to greet them with friendly rumble, or lecture them about keeping their fur cleaner and their feet in good order, just as the Doctor would watch after the boys. For someone with a great big cat daemon, he was not very threatening.

"Its coz lions live in a family, isn't it?" Said Wig, as Agnes headed the little troop of daemons and the other lads listened attentively to their "adult" leader. "Just like dogs. He takes care of his own."

"I think he just likes bossin' us around" muttered Trevor. His daemon had been favoring fiercer animals lately, now she turned into a little wildcat that was eyelevel with Agnes. "Thinks he knows what's best for us, like all the others. Tryin' to tell us what to do."

The dog growled and received a hiss and a scratch for her trouble. Wiggins bowled into the stouter boy; they rolled and wrestled for five minutes before the other lads managed to pull them apart.

It took six more to pry the daemons apart. It only ended when Bertie's changed to a goat and got Agnes tail between its teeth; and even then there was biting and struggling until a shopkeeper came a long and chased them off.

Nursing what would be a black eye, Wiggins could only think evil thoughts for the other boy.

He rethought them a month later, when Trevor disappeared.

It took four more boys vanishing over only two nights, for Wig to go to Mr. Holmes.

* * *

They were waiting in a storage yard set between a cab station, and a post office that usually afforded some work, and where Mr. Holmes knew he could find them.

Bertie spotted the falcon first, winging its way through coal-smoke drafts, and rising steam.

"Guvnor!"

Wig shot to his feet. He sighed in relief when he saw the Doctor and the familiar tawny form walking beside him. Mr. Holmes always brought Watson when he was serious.

And he was serious. The Guvnor's face was set in a frown when he stopped in front of the troop of boys, fourteen in all, and all unusually subdued, with daemons hiding quietly as mice or birds or lizards.

"What are you all doing here?" he snapped, ignoring Wiggin's salute.

"Because that's just it, Sir," the lad replied, standing very straight before the full-grown man and meeting his eyes. It was one of the reasons he was the leader, he'd never been the least bit afraid of Mr. Holmes. "We're not all here."

Holmes flipped his hand in impatience. "But, why so many of you? A large group draws undue attention. You only need to send word and I would—"

"That's what I tried this morning, Sir. But I couldn't leave 'em alone for long." Wiggins motioned to the other lads, all of whom were pressed unusually close. "I didn't fancy more of us goin' missin'."

Those eyes of his flashed and turned sharpish, like a penknife. Mr. Holmes took a seat on one of the packing crates nearby, his daemon settled with a thump beside him. Wiggins felt a little wave of triumph. Now they had his attention.

Wiggins told him everything, feeling his twelve-year-old heart lighten a little as he did. By the end of it the Guvnor's eyes were soft again, but that was good. It meant that nutter brain of his was working away. He sat very still and his daemon's eyes were shut.

On the other hand, the Doc couldn't stay still. He stood, watching Mr. Holmes, hands fumbling at buttons and his watch, until he finally shoved them into his pockets and settled for shifting his weight from foot to foot. Marjatta paced the small ring they'd formed, circling and growling at the shadows edging the little yard. It was like watching a pot of water, and as the boys knew it would, it finally boiled.

"Holmes." The Guvnor ignored the Doctor. But the falcon ruffled her feathers.

Watson gritted his teeth and stepped closer to hiss into his friend's ear. "_Holmes."_

A little frown appeared between Holmes' eyes, but it wasn't until Marjatta finally growled at the little falcon that he opened them.

"This is serious, Wiggins," he said, still ignoring his friend. "Even more serious than you think it is. It's not just Scotland Yard trying to fill the workhouses or one of my enemies trying to get even. I might speculate a gang but you're all too smart to be roped into something like that."

"We're our own gang, Guvnor," Wig said darkly, and there was a murmur of agreement through the little crowd. "And some of us got families and—"

"Yes," the Guv muttered. "Yes, I know. I want you to be cautious, try not to take any dangerous jobs. You will report to me daily. Instantly if anything unusual occurs. You will leave me to do the investigating."He dug some silver from his pocket to disappear instantly into Wiggin's.

"Yessir."

"Let us know if that doesn't keep you." Watson added, and Marjatta growled in agreement, still circling the yard.

"We'll take care of it, Guv." Wig smiled and Agnes yapped. for a man with a lion-daemon, the Doc also worried too much.

Watson looked unhappy but nodded in turn, calling to the lioness and scratching her head to calm her.

"Off you go." Holmes said, "No use staying in open places like this."

Wiggins saluted again, coz that was what a proper lieutenant did, and darted off to the back of the alley. Mr. Holmes would take care of it now, he only had to stay smart and keep his head.

Still, he looked back over his shoulder to make certain he could count fourteen heads following him.

_**Now **_**we're getting somewhere!**


	4. A Thinking Man

"**Hunting is not a proper employment for a thinking man." - Joseph Addison**

**First, an apology to Capt. Facepalm. I only just realized that one of the lines in my last chapter is very similar to one in chapter five of her untitled Sherlock Holmes fic. This was not intentional. **

Only daemons were allowed to talk in the Diogenes club. Daemons cannot be heard if they don't want you to hear them. So no one was disturbed if the snake of one gentleman, sought a conference with the spaniel of another.

This is why no one took any notice of the hushed conference between the lioness and the little hawk perched upon her back; as they followed their silent humans up the polished steps to the stranger's room.

"But do you really think someone is taking the boy's by force?" Marjatta growled. She had been worried from the moment she spotted the irregular's daemons. It did not take a consulting detective to see that they had been frightened, burrowing inside their human's ragged shirts as the smallest animals they could imagine, hardly shifting at all.

Cerridwyn sighed, and ruffled her feathers to arrange them more comfortably across her back. Usually she enjoyed the quiet atmosphere of Mycroft's club, but the lion's agitation was making her edgy.

"You need only to be acquainted with the irregulars to know it. Trevor might have left without a word, but the other four would never have done so. They are far too loyal to Wiggins."

"And little wonder," Marjatta added. "With how he takes care of them."

"Precisely. Add to that the fact that they have all disappeared within so short amount of time and the solution is obvious. This is a clear case of abduction."

"But why?" an unhappy rumble sounded deep in her chest. "What use are they to anyone? If anyone knew anything of their value it is Holmes. They are not particularly strong; they share no similar features, or any useful knowledge. And their daemons are not particularly amiable, even if they had settled. They could hardly make good servants." This was true. The majority of the irregulars' daemons took wild forms, rats, alley cats, sparrows and the occasional squirrel.

The falcon cocked her head thoughtfully, and then clicked her wicked little beak in satisfaction. "And there you have hit upon a point, my dear Marjatta. There is hardly a domestic animal among them."

The lioness frowned, and began to inquire what exactly her feathered friend meant by that remark, but she came up short against Watson's legs, knocking Cerridwyn from her perch. Too late she realized they had arrived.

The falcon righted herself, trying to preserve her ruffled dignity and alighted to Holmes' shoulder, just as an enormous figure met them at the door.

"Ah, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled, "And Dr. Watson, do come in. I have some excellent biscuits here."

Mycroft's daemon had not even deigned to rise from the couch and greet them, but remained in a little spiked ball upon her favorite cushion. Cerridwyn, eyes gleaming with mischievous relish, took off to land beside her.

Mycroft showed no alarm, but waved his guests to two empty chairs. He waited until they had been plied with tea, and the aforementioned biscuits, before inquiring.

"Now, Sherlock, what brings you to my door, that could not be couched in a telegram?"

Sherlock told him, shortly and succinctly, in the manner shared only between the two brothers. And when the tale was finished, Mycroft frowned deeply.

"I take it you do not wish me to comb through our governmental institutions for these urchin's whereabouts. My plate is more than satisfactory at present, and I am not your personal secretary."

Marjatta huffed beside Watson's chair, and the Doctor quieted her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Not the normal institutions. And they are not just urchins, they are my agents and vital to my work."

"Of course," the elder's face softened (an easy feat, considering it was the only sharp feature of his considerable bulk). "I understand your attachment. Do you have reason to believe an underhanded agency might be behind this?"

"At the very least it must have some considerable funding," said Sherlock. "The kind of money you can only get from—"

"From the government," Mycroft nodded. "Or a private contributor, but none of the features seem to suggest such a thing."

"At the least, no private ends could be served by it."

"Certainly not from this source. Better, and cheaper labor can be had anywhere in London."

"So the funding must come from a semi-impartial party."

"Yes, I see your point." Mycroft reached over and scratched the belly of the hedgehog. Something Sherlock did with his own daemon when intrigued. "I will be a fairly simple matter to make inquiries, but I shall leave you to do the hunting." His daemon grunted in agreement and nestled deeper into the pillow.

At once, Sherlock looked more relieved, and Marjatta ceased her rumbling. "Thank you, brother."

* * *

They declined the offer to dinner, despite the supposedly excellent fowl the kitchens were serving, and made their way back to Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson had removed all traces of Wiggin's passage from the stairwell, but she was not happy when Holmes declared they would not be staying to dinner.

"And might I ask why you insist on keeping me as your housekeeper, when I have no opportunity to perform such services?"

George scowled darkly from her shoulder, causing Cerridwyn to flee to the banister.

"My dear lady, it is your house," Holmes smiled.

She snorted and hurried past them, back into the kitchen, muttering all the way.

"I think she might already be preparing a meal for us," Watson explained, it had been a long time since the eggs at breakfast.

"Never mind, Watson," Holmes followed Cerridwyn swiftly up the stairs. "We have an investigation to pursue. What need have we of repast when there is food enough for even your romantic thoughts? The East end awaits us, with all its fodder of humanity."

"You mean to investigate immediately?"

Holmes paused to look back at him. "Would you have me wait?"

Watson shook his head emphatically, "certainly not."

"Then come." The Doctor followed at once, with the lioness at his heels.

**Mycroft's daemon has been the most difficult for me so far. I went through spiders, snakes, birds, monkeys and pigs, and nothing seemed right. Hedgehogs are awkward, fat little rodents, who can curl up in a protective spiky ball to shelter themselves from the outside world.**

**And you only need to watch Granada's Mycroft to see the resemblance, especially in the face. **


	5. Out of Pride

_"I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a **lion** out of pride in my profession." –John Steinbeck_

Watson is a writer, and so is Steinbeck. See the connection? Yah see it? Do you? See it-okay whatever.

Here be moar!

* * *

When they were younger, Marjatta preferred smaller, simpler forms. Watson had been a quiet boy, always a shadow behind his elder brother. He would sit and read books, with his daemon curled around his shoulders. Or they would escape to the woods behind the house, where there were trees to climb and a small stream to throw pebbles into and sail boats made out of father's newspaper.

Their world had changed now, but essentially they were the same; the doctor was nurturing by nature. His fellow soldiers sensed it instinctively as he carried them from the bloody desert, with their daemons clutched in Marjatta's mouth. They were still calm, and they enjoyed comfort. For hours on end the lioness would be content to stretch out on the carpet as her human read a novel, in reminiscence of a distant childhood. But the browned soldier, with eyes that had cleared and hardened with the cruelty of the world, could never have been content with the small, fuzzy forms of the past. His scarred, tawny companion was much more fitting.

_And more reassuring_, Watson thought, burying his fingers in the coarse pelt. He was able to breathe more easily with her warm, solid presence beside him; eye level as he crouched on the muddy pavement next to her. She was a reminder of his ability to get them out of whatever scrape Holmes got them into…that and the revolver that was as lethal as her claws.

The detective had left them behind…again. Too many times Watson had heard the familiar lecture. "You are not suited for dissimulation, my dear fellow, far too honest a chap…and having a great hulking beast as a daemon does not help matters." _That_ was an impassable barrier; Watson had to admit, and eliminated any chance of disguise for him. The number of _Panthera_, even in dankest corners of London, was small. The best they could have done would have been to cover her with a sheepskin rug and hope no one was looking at her feet, an idea that Marjatta had not appreciated in the least.

So Holmes had entered the pub without them, sporting gray stubble, a scarred eye, and clothes so oily you could have lit several lamps with them. Cerridwyn merely ruffled her feathers disreputably and clung to his shoulder; there were so many birds among seafarers that no one would bat an eye.

"She's so smug," muttered the lioness in rebellion. "You know the other day in Regent's she hardly bothered to land just to prove she didn't have to walk like the rest of us."

"Never mind, she looks like a duck when she walks."

Marjatta laughed, easing some of the tension in Watson's chest. Holmes had been inside the little tavern for some time. Long enough for him to gather information on the irregulars and have a pint as well.

"You could use one," the lion shivered in sympathy, "and some warmer clothes."

"We'll wait for colder weather."

"Ah," the lion smiled, "clever, then you'll only be _half_ frozen by Christmas."

"Pick a faster horse next time, then my pocket won't be so light," Watson smirked. She rumbled in agreement and turned her attention back to the crooked doorway that had been the subject of the Doctor's scrutiny for over an hour. It was a wonder the weathered timbers hadn't sagged in shame under all his attention.

They stayed that way in silence for a while, going stiff from the cold and crouching behind fish baskets. They grew edgy from waiting, he could feel her desire to go and wander, even if it was not productive. But it was not until the fur bristled on her neck, and her claws began to dig into the pavement that he felt alarm. Perhaps it was soldier's instincts—she'd seen or heard something to remind her of Afghanistan—but they did not commonly jump or spook.

"He's done something stupid," she said, and he felt no hesitation but agreed at once, rising to his feet even as she growled. They'd learned from experience that stitching Holmes together was far harder than knocking someone else apart.

It was late enough after working hours that the large room was filled with men, putting their filthy boots on table chairs and nursing head-spinning amounts of alcohol. Most of them were nose-first in their ale, and didn't even bother to look up when the Doctor and his daemon entered their sawdust kingdom.

The ones who did look up looked away again. Even drunk they were smart enough not to make eye contact with a man whose soul was a 20 stone cat.

Marjatta stalked the length of the long room, ignoring the feral dog daemons that growled at her from under tables and chairs. Her business lay at the end of the pub, where a door still hung ajar, leading to a dark passage that had never in its existence been swept. It was a riverbed of silt, coal and other filth, deposited there by centuries of passing footwear, and disturbed by the same. Several violent scuff marks stood out in the dark clay, and it was to these that Watson's singular focus was drawn. Patrons moved out of the way as his pace quickened, and he shed his outer coat, drawing the revolver from it.

There was the familiar tang in his mouth; the one that reminded him of steel and cordite, the stink of sweat and blood baking in the desert sun. The gun was a warm heavy weight in his grip, like a living thing, and Marjatta was pressed against his legs, coiled like the hair-trigger. He could feel the tension in her jaw even as his heart began to pound with adrenaline.

These were not pleasant sensations. They did not bring joy or fulfillment. But they were old comrades, and he slipped them on like any campaigner before making his charge into the back room.

He expected a lantern, but the dark welcomed him, and a huddle of shadows turned to greet him. They were either very cheap or very smart…either way his gun was useless.

One of them, a solid looking silhouette turned on him.

"Get outta here!" it demanded, and something hissed from its shoulder, some form of rodent perhaps…A large one.

Two more shapes distinguished themselves, and no sign of Holmes

"What have you done with him?" Watson demanded, and felt the supple tension of the group stiffen.

"Aw bloody…" one of closer ones swore and swung something long and heavy through the air.

Watson ducked, felt the whisper of it tickle the hair on his neck, and followed under it to drive his fist into the man's stomach. This had the doubly fortunate effect of knocking the man off his feet, and sending the other two, and their daemons, into a frenzied attack.

None of their daemons had seen Marjatta, but Watson heard the moment they discovered what she was. The room filled with horrible snarls and squeals as the animals tussled, and Watson stepped into the next man and twisted, letting his momentum carry him into the wall beyond.

The rat man, the most cautious by far, stood back and waited for the Doctor to approach, spinning his fists in the dim light. It was confusing, hard to gauge, Watson aimed for his jaw—and found nothing but air as the man dodged nimbly and returned the blow.

Watson staggered and let his game leg falter a bit.

Rat-man soared in his confidence and took the bait. He brought himself in close and got two jabs to the stomach and a right hook for his trouble, before sprawling on the floor.

And then stick-man was back without his stick, trying to lock his arms around Watson's neck, with some idea of choking or holding him.

But Stick-man's partner was too slow. Watson drove his elbow back and turned, letting the two of them crash together and join their leader in heap. He added a few kicks for good measure and bent to look for his gun.

Marjatta had one of the daemons pinned, but she abandoned it when a sudden scream tore into the rhythm of the fight.

Not a man's scream, not even human.

It was the unholy screech of a bird.

She released her squirming prey and charged towards the shrieks. Another door opened out of the little storage room to the yard at the back of the building. She burst through it and stopped dead at the sight before her.

Gas and moonlight illuminated the muddy square; in the center stood Sherlock Holmes, with his hands bound behind him, and a rivulet of blood running from his nose. He was struggling, but his head was trapped in the arms of a beefy man who was well accustomed to his role.

A second man stood behind them, with Holmes' own stick raised above his head.

Even as Marjatta watched he brought it crashing down on the Detective's back, straight across his shoulder blades. And it was only then she noticed he'd been stripped down to his braces, utterly unprotected

Holmes recoiled and grunted, but more prominent was the shriek of pain and fear from Cerridwyn feeling her human's pain.

The little falcon was flat on her back on the ground, wings outstretched in gruesome parody of flight. The other men's daemons, a small wild-cat and a fox, stood one on each wing.

A second blow, another cry from Holmes, and the falcon struggled madly, claws ripping at the air, shuddering and flapping against the mud.

Marjatta flinched, and then dug her claws into the soft earth. Her tail lashed the air, strong and hard like a whip and she raised her head as something big pushed through her chest to her throat.

She opened her mouth, a gaping black maw that curled her face and showed her teeth.

She roared, and the sound ripped the night air in two.

The two men and their daemons looked up at once. The one with the stick blinked and raised it again, uncertain.

A loud crack from a gun made him pause.

Watson entered the little yard, revolver leveled, lips pulled back in a snarl of his own.

"Lower it!"

The man shifted, grainy brain running on full. "Now…look here mate—"

Marjatta stalked towards the unprotected daemons, still growling. She turned to the smaller cat so that it scrambled back.

"I said drop it! And let him go!" Watson ordered. "Don't think I will not shoot. I value every hair on his head to ten of you!"

The man dropped the stick, and when Watson advanced the second released Holmes.

The detective staggered a little but kept his feet and straightened as much as he could. He looked at Watson, eyes black with fear and grinned.

"My my, Watson," he panted. "What a temper you are in tonight."

* * *

**I had absolutely no intention of leaving it off there, but it fit so well.**

**And yeah, I gave a big beefy guy a little fox daemon. But think about it, he's the clever one. He wasn't stupid enough to actually hit Holmes.*wince***


	6. A Wounded Animal

**"If any player has a bad game it's there in the back of your mind in the next game. There's always a hangover. It is like a wounded animal in a way, as you want to get out there as quick as possible and rectify it."**  
** Rio Ferdinand **

**Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are awesome Sorry its so late. My last semester really cracked down on me outta no where.**

Holmes' grin was far from reassuring. It was a thin gash in his pale face, trembling at the edges and threatening to turn into a grimace at any moment. It was too dark to see the damage done to him, but from the way Holmes was standing—bent and stiff, like a tree grasping vainly at the earth with its roots in an attempt to stay upright—it was bad enough to affect even his iron constitution.

Watson adjusted his grip on the gun; the steel was clammy against his hand now. He held out his other hand and beckoned. "Holmes…"

"Yes," the detective tried to collect himself, and managed to stumble away from the two men, turning to face them as soon as Watson was within arms' reach.

"I would like to say it has been a profitable conversation, gentlemen, but I fancy that I learned a great deal more this evening than you did. At least you spoke far more than I, rather the opposite of the outcome you tried to achieve wasn't it?"

"I don't know who you are," the smaller man growled "A gammy toff with enough money to buy a little muscle wiv a barker on 'im. But you'd better be watching your back—"

Marjatta growled but it was Holmes who interrupted "Sound advice that I would follow if I was in your place, sir. This job, whoever it is you're working for now, must be a man of some wealth…am I right? Who else would be able to pay you so well you would splurge on a new pair of expensive shoes when you could get suitable ones from any respectable rag-seller. You can't have had them for more than a number of days, and yet the rest of your clothing is of far cheaper quality. So you have only been employed for a few weeks. Don't get used to it. It will come down on your heads. Especially if you continue to accost curious strangers who buy drinks from your establishment, and try to beat information out of them."

The larger man bared his teeth at that, and his fox daemon made a dive for Cerridwyn, only to be smacked aside by Marjatta, to sprawl a few feet away.

The man howled and went to lift the creature, his partner snarled and shuffled backwards, fouling his new shoes further in the mud.

"Well, old man," Watson fumbled in his pocket, drew his penknife and cut through the ropes on Holmes' hands. "If you got what you wanted, what say we repair to friendlier climes, somewhere where they don't hit their patrons with a stick?"

"Capital," Holmes murmured. "Just let me…" he staggered again, this time to where Marjatta crouched over Cerridwyn. She'd been calling to him for a few minutes now, His knees folded, but this time it was purposeful, so he could reach for the little falcon, that was still encased in the mud.

She screeched in concern and clawed at the air with her talons, as he swayed. In painful concentration he dug his fingers around the edge of one wing and pried it free, followed quickly by the other. His nervous hands swept over the primary feathers, loosening some of the clods.

The instant she was free Cerridwyn climbed his arm to his shoulder and pressed her little body against his face, preening his hair and keening low in her throat.

Marjatta watched both of them and Watson returned his gaze to his prisoners.

"I should flay the pair of you," he muttered, "but I don't have time to waste with cowards. Face the wall and get on your knees."

With much muttering and grumbling about the mud they did so. Watson paused to pick up Holmes stick, then pulled his friend to his feet.

They left the yard at the rear, through a gate that led to the mews. Marjatta followed last, with a lamp=like glower at the other daemons before departing.

* * *

They stopped at a smaller establishment, in a more commercial part of the district that was filled with shops and stalls rather than dockyards. Watson would have rather gone home, but the detective was vehement, and even his daemon screeched loudly in protest.

"We have still more to investigate, Watson! Not a few streets away from here!"

The Doctor had long ago learned that compromise often worked, where Holmes failed to faint dead away.

"Very well, but you will sit and I will examine you first. And you will put this on." A goodly amount of silver had gotten them a private room, hot water, bandages and a spare shirt, that was roughly made, but clean; now he waved it under Holmes nose like a truce banner and the detective swatted it away in irritation.

"Yes of course. Carry on, Doctor." He was sifting some of Cerridwyn's feathers between his fingers. The mud had dried them into little rattling scales, so now the bird looked more like a primitive lizard. She hissed as he pulled one of them too hard.

"Easy!"

Holmes scowled at her, "I am Churrie, hush." She grumbled and returned to preening his hair absently.

"Did they hurt her?" asked Watson. Dipping a flannel and standing so that he could best see the damage to Holmes' back.

He'd suffered a knock to the head, but that was fleeting and superficial compared to the mass of growing welts on his shoulders, sitting between islands of red bruises that would become purple before morning. They'd thrashed him hard and for some long minutes before Watson interrupted.

"They meant to," he admitted as he carefully stroked the feathers on his daemon's breast. "If they'd hit any harder they might have broken one of my scapula."

And a broken bone in Holmes' back would mean agony for Cerridwyn's wings. Watson knew full well the sadness of a crippled daemon, and had to grit his teeth before he pressed the cloth carefully against one of the larger marks, wiping away the swath of blood that had dried there. Holmes stiffened and bit down on a cry.

"Sorry."

Holmes chuckled darkly and moaned. "Why? You aren't responsible…oh devil!"

"I trust whatever you discovered was worth this?"

The detective gladly retreated into reiteration as Watson continued to clean the wounds. Another old trick which proved they had done this far too often.

"It is not only the irregulars that have been taken; there is an orphanage, not a few streets where several boys have gone missing from."

"Only boys?"

"Yes, suggestive is it not? We can be sure that whoever is taking them has a more specific aim in mind. Why boys, what difference can it possibly make in children?"

Watson snorted and rewet the rag in water that was fast growing pale pink. "I know you are ignorant of some things, Holmes, but even you must admit, there is a difference."

"Oww…Yes, but at that age, Watson? Children are children."

"What are you getting at, old fellow?"

Holmes tried to turn and scowl, but had to stop as it stretched the wounds. Cerridwyn hissed and shuffled on the table.

"I know," Watson sighed, "You don't 'get at' anything. Bricks without clay and all that. Do you intend to go to this place and get your clay then?"

"No," the detective shook his head, "Directness is not always the best method to get information. This particular asylum is rather large for all its shabbiness. Its charitable overly-wealthy beneficiaries keep a groundskeeper, though he doubles as a guard in case the poor wretches try to escape. He goes to drink and have dinner at an establishment close to here."

"Another pub?"

A wry smile on the pale face. "Yes, well. Hopefully more respectable than the one we just left."

"Do I get to come inside this time?" Watson put aside the rag in the now red basin, and took out a role of bandaging.

"I'll need your charming company to ease the gentleman into a talkative mood, dear Doctor. Apparently he was once a batman."

"Then we'll have a lot in common," Watson pawked, wrapping his friend's back tightly. "Sometimes I feel that's all I am is your retainer."

Cerridwyn rustled her feathers, releasing a cloud of dried mud, and showering poor Marjatta. Who had taken up vigil under the table.

The lioness growled, but stayed where she was.

**And for those of you who wanted to see Watson thrash those two blighters...Yeah I wanted him to too. But that's going to have to come in a little later. So hold out for a while and you'll get to see it. **

**Tell me what you think. Reviews are love, but comments are pure gold.  
**


	7. The Dog Did Nothing

**"Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?' **

** To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.' **

** The dog did nothing in the night-time.' **

**That was the curious incident,' remarked Sherlock Holmes." - Silver Blaze**

* * *

"Did I ever tell you about old colonel Hayter, Holmes?" asked Watson over his pork pie.

"The one you met in Delhi?" Holmes returned, and then dropped his voice. "Admirable Watson, but a little quieter if you please, we are trying to attract the attention of the man at the next table, not the one in the street."

The good Doctor sighed and pushed his pie around a little. It was difficult to concentrate when he finally had some food in front of him. Holmes' own meal of fowl and potatoes lay untouched.

"Yes, that's the one," Watson went on. "He was a good sort, always ready for a drink and a chat. Sometimes in the evenings, when we were cooling our heels, waiting for orders, I would go to his tent and we would play a hand or two."

Holmes smiled and under his breath said, "Is that where you started your unfortunate affair with lady luck?"

Watson cleared his throat loudly, "I remember one night we'd been set up in a ravine outside a little village for almost a week, even Hayter was getting restless. He'd been drinking more than usual, ranting about his career in the army and the incompetence of our general. Now, when you're with Hayter and he starts to drink, the only thing he's fonder of than filling his own glass, is making sure yours is filled as well."

Holmes nodded; face apt with interest, but only half of his attention was on the old familiar story. His eyes kept flickering to the gentleman, one bridges by name, sitting across from them in the dim, quiet little pub. Cerridwyn's hooded eyes were fixed on him, unblinking from her position in the shadow of Holmes' chair.

Bridges and his little spaniel daemon were taking less and less interest in the dinner, and more and more in their neighbors, ears visibly pricked for Watson's story. It was a perfect choice on the Doctor's part, a tale that derided an officer and was bound to end in laughable back-slapping failure for all the characters involved.

"Last thing I remember is thinking that Hayter's face was just a little too red, and then I woke up with my face on the table and the oil lamp out."

Holmes laughed, one of his infectious laughs that invited passerby to share his enjoyment. Bridges at the next table now looked on in unabashed interest.

"Hayter had made his way to his cot and was snoring like the devil and it was pretty obvious I'd better make my way back to my tent so I could show my face in the morning, but my mouth tasted like the bottom of my boot so I decided to get myself a drink of water first."

Bridges' spaniel was wagging her ragged-banner tail in amusement.

"Hayter liked to hang his canteen outside on one of the posts, out of habit, and I stumbled to the flap to get it."

Watson had forgotten his pie, now telling the story with genuine relish. "I'd only just reached it when Hayter gave one of the most curious hair-raising snorts I'd ever heard before. It made me shudder I don't mind telling you. I was still a little heady from the drink so I turned around and bellowed at him to sleep more like the dead and less like an elephant, and then I turned back…and there was a tiger, staring at my shouting."

Holmes scoffed, and shared a companionable look around the room, stopping to laugh and raise a brow at the man and his spaniel. "A tiger, really old boy."

"Honest truth," Watson said and took a drink to wet his mouth. "I didn't screech then, I froze, couldn't move a muscle I was so stiff with fear. Lucky for me it was a young thing, still ropey legged and not more than a year old. Instead of taking a chunk out of my arm it sniffed at me, so bloody close I felt its whiskers brush my arm."

Bridges let out a gasp of disbelief and gaped openly over his drink. Watson nodded insistently and continued.

"It took me a few good minutes to get my head back, and then I could hardly stop shaking long enough to back away and reach for the gun Hayter left on the card table. It was a big old double-barreled affair from a past 'glorious expedition' and it was loaded. I got it into my shoulder and raised it at the little fiend, she was almost too close, practically followed me into the tent. She nearly sniffed up the barrel before I finally managed to fire it."

"Did you kill it?" asked their neighbor.

Watson laughed and ruefully shook his head. "I was shaking too badly for that, from the drink as well. I clipped her and she bolted, I doubt she's poked her nose into any tents since. I did manage to blast the canteen and part of the tent though and the shot woke Hayter right enough; fell face-first off his cot, still scrambling for his revolver."

Holmes laughed, and this time Bridges joined in. the detective waved him over to the table as Watson took another drink.

Cerridwyn shared a conspiratorial look with Marjatta underneath the table, and gave a little pleased ruffle of her still-muddy feathers. The spaniel padded over to sit politely by the legs of her human's new chair.

"And what about you, sir?" Holmes asked the newcomer with just the right amount of casual interest, "You look like a man familiar with the military."

Bridges nodded and opened his mouth, "I was a batman for a captain, few years back…"

They shared three old army relics, before Holmes finally steered things toward the present and the asylum that was Bridges' current occupation.

The detective was charming, and 'pleasantly straightforward' about life and its hardships, London was just too difficult a place to make an honest living in…

"Don't I know it, Sir!" Bridges grumbled and swigged his drink, inviting the others to share his sentiment, Holmes nodded, but Watson was too deep in his pie to pay too much attention. "Why for the past two years I've been reduced to guarding a bunch of brats in a decrepit old house I'm ashamed to be seen at, no dignity at all, long cold nights for a pittance of what I got in the army, and not a bit of appreciation for all my efforts."

"How so?" asked Holmes.

"Well take just the last month," Bridges said. "Over just the past three weeks, eight of the little beggars have gone missing. Not a sign of em, no way on earth they made it out of the house without help. But I'm to blame because I'm the one who watches the gates for em."

"Is it only the gates you watch?" Holmes asked, and there was a sharp edge to his voice that made Marjatta glance up at him.

"Not at all!" the man said warmly, "I guard the whole grounds, pace up and down em Aidee and I, all the night long. But even so there's no way they could make it out. I keep the walls in good order, seven feet, too tall for a litte'uns, the gate is padlocked besides."

"And they don't believe you?" Watson asked, helpfully sympathetic because Holmes was growing rapidly introspective.

"Not a word!" Bridges grumbled. "Not like in the army at all, you understand. There we it was clean cut, no monkey business."

"Yes, regrettable," Holmes murmured. "Is that the only gate?"

"Yeah, save for the kitchens of course. But we have a cook and a scullery maid and their room is just beside it. That girl sleeps light as a feather, her daemon's a little fox-eared thing. Nothin' slips past her."

"Are there any trees on the grounds?" Holmes asked.

Bridges frowned, "No."

"No vines, no growth, no cover?"

"No." Bridges said a little forcefully, "I said I keep the walls in good order."

"Have any newcomers been around the house?"

"No…"

"And do you walk around with a lantern at night?"

"Yes…now look here what do you mean—"

Holmes got to his feet, and put a handful of coins on the table, enough to pay for all three of their dinners.

"Thank you," Cerridwyn climbed up his sleeve and he turned. "Come, Watson."

The Doctor smiled rose to his feet with Marjatta, thanked Bridges for the military talk, and left him gaping.

* * *

**Thanks for all your reviews! Every last one of them! I am unable to respond to them, because FF messed up my gmail address. But i read them and love them, and there will be more and more fic in payment for it. You guys are awesome.**


	8. In the Wild

**"In the wild struggle for existence, we want to have something that endures, and so we fill our minds with rubbish and facts, in the silly hope of keeping our place." - Oscar Wilde  
**

**For Wolfie-chan. Thanks for the message that kicked me into gear. **

**And to all you other lovely review leaving people.**

* * *

You can tell as much about a person from looking at their daemon as you can from looking at their boots.

Aside from the obvious facts like a cat daemon means independence, and a dog daemon means loyalty, the physical state of the daemon itself is very informative. A collection of salt on a bird-daemons' wings can indicate a life at sea. A mouse-daemon with inky paws is likely to belong to a secretary. A person with a well-groomed daemon is more likely to inhabit an expensive house, while a filthy daemon is probably from the streets.

Sherlock Holmes could see all of these things and observe far more than any other man. But these rules did not always apply to himself. Cerridwyn was filthier than he was when they entered their newly-tidied home, and it took a whole basin of warm water to finally get her clean.

"Heaven be praised Mrs. Hudson is a sound sleeper," muttered Watson, setting the basin on the old bear-skin rug before the fireplace. Holmes gently lowered his daemon into the water and she sighed in relief. Outside of disguise, the detective preferred to be immaculate.

The mud crumbled away under his gentle stroking of her feathers, until she cheeped softly in pleasure and her eyes were half-closed. Marjatta watched, tail flicking.

A rumble escaped her, and Cerridwyn opened one eye to glare.

"It's not funny," the falcon chirped.

"But I'm so amused," the lion insisted, settling her chin on her paws. "You're half your normal size,"

"Watson," Holmes grumbled.

The good Doctor's face was stony with control, though he could not suppress the twitching of his moustache. He cleared his throat and shook his finger at the lioness

The falcon _was_ half her usual size, and looked rather like a half-drowned chicken if Marjatta were to be honest. Marjatta _was_ honest, but she was also tactful.

"You look very wet," she declared at last.

"How astute."

Watson cleared his throat before Marjatta could speak again. "Are you going to tell me what it was you deduced that made you swan out of that seedy little pub?"

"I deduced nothing," Holmes said, gently extending one of his daemon's wings under the water. "I confirmed what I already suspected."

"Which is?"

"That the children are being taken by force, and not at random either. They were selected."

Marjatta wrinkled her snout in distaste and growled. "Selected?"

"How do you know this?" Watson folded his arms and leaned forward, frowning unhappily.

"Let us examine the facts," Holmes continued in a level tone. "The first to disappear within our knowledge are the five irregulars. Can you remember the boys in question, Watson?"

"Not all of them. There was that Trevor lad…"

"A very unpleasant little chap, according to Wiggins," Holmes said. "But very resourceful, he was alone for six years before he began working with us. Do you remember his daemon?"

Marjatta snorted and Cerridwyn spoke up from the basin. "She was equally unpleasant, inclined to fight with the other boy's daemons as to do her work."

"And she usually won," Watson said. "Taking large, wild forms gave her the upper hand."

"Exactly," Holmes snapped, "a pariah dog, a wild-cat, once I saw her as a wolf, always a predator, Watson."

"And this has something to do with the boy being kidnapped?"

"It is the very _reason_, he was kidnapped," Holmes lifted the falcon's other wing, hands quick and methodical now. "The other boys, Alan, Evans, Winslow, and Benjamin all had similarly inclined daemons. They were large and unusually feral, even for street urchins. You cannot tell me thirteen such boys is coincidence"

"Thirteen?"

"The news of the eight boys from the workhouse confirms it. Bridges was correct in saying that an average child could not have climbed a seven-foot high wall. In order to escape their daemons would have to be unusual, large and agile enough to help them over it. Can you really see a smaller daemon, or even Wiggins' own making it over such an obstacle?"

"But daemons can change," Watson objected. "If they needed to climb over the wall surely they had only to change into a monkey or gorilla."

Holmes tutted, "They were all nearly ten years of age. At that time a daemon's form begins to narrow to four or five different shapes. It becomes harder to change at will, even if the children had enough imagination for such a feat. There is a reason London is not infested with tiger and gorilla daemons, Watson, simply because no one has seen them."

"Then how do you know the children who escaped were taken as well?" Watson asked, fetching the stack of towels he had ready and laying one down as Holmes lifted Cerridwyn from the basin.

"The gentlemen who delayed me at the pub did a lot of talking before you arrived," Holmes said, protectively covering his daemon with a second towel. "They wanted to know why I was asking about the local workhouses. They were most anxious to know where I'd been 'poking my nose', as they put it. It is my belief that one of them visited Bridges' workplace, and started a rumor among the children of an opportunity outside of the home, perhaps on a ship in the harbor. Then they had only to wait for the boldest boys with the largest daemons to escape and pick them up. The meeker ones would stay behind. Their work was done for them."

"But _why_?" Marjatta yowled unhappily, and her disquiet was reflected in the Doctor's hazel eyes. "What use can unruly children with wild daemons be? They can't be trained for servitude. If they wanted a workforce they could have just commissioned the whole workhouse."

Watson put a hand on his daemon's back, and the lioness settled with reluctance, glaring down at her massive paws.

"We have some ideas," Cerridwyn murmured, lost in the folds of the fluffy towel, but still trying to placate her friend.

"But we are not certain yet," Holmes cautioned. "That answer is not as important as the lives of the boys themselves. We shall find them first, and then discover the purpose."

"Where could they have been taken?" Watson asked.

The detective smiled. "and there, you are already beginning to _think_, my dear Watson. The inclination of kidnappers is to _remove_ their victims to some distance. And it would be very difficult to conceal lads with daemons this wild in the heart of London. As for _where_ they are, another chat with our "friends" should provide us with that information." Holmes got to his feet, cradling the towel-wrapped bundle in his arms. He moved stiffly, and it was evident his back was paining him.

The Doctor frowned. "Do you mean to go after them tonight? It is already past one. and I do not think your injuries…"

"I know my limits, Watson," Holmes sounded irritable, only proof of how poorly he was feeling. "We don't need to be hasty in this case, and I would rather be able to face the ruffians standing."

Cerridwyn was quiet in compliance with, and perhaps it was her own, evident exhaustion that made Holmes take rest.

"But you will sleep?" Watson asked.

Holmes sighed at his friend, "Yes, but only if you and that great looming cat do as well. You need it."

The doctor nodded, and leaving the mess on the floor bade his friend good night.

"Good night, Watson." Holmes watched his friend climb the stairs, his lion limping after him. Hopefully no ghazi's would interrupt his friend's rest tonight.

* * *

**Okay that was a lot of talk. Hang in there. The long-promised butt-kicking is coming in the next chapter. And perhaps a train ride too.**

**It seems to me that there has been a lot of conflict between Holmes and Watson in the new movies and tv shows. And I'm trying to break away from that a bit. I'm sure they had plenty of conflict, and it is interesting. But they wouldn't have been friends if they didn't enjoy each other's company most of the time! I'd much rather have them antagonize the villains than each other.**


	9. A Well Timed Swoop

**"The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim." - Sun Tzu**

* * *

Cerridwyn stood on the eaves of 221b Baker Street. The sky was still pallid and not yet warmed by the sun. Against it she seemed a gargoyle's shadow on the dark roof. Looking east she could see the Thames, stretching away like a great, filthy brown snake, trapped under its many feeble bridges. She watched, a little stone sentinel, until the sun broke through the fog, as it did every morning. Quietly and unannounced it came, turning the river gold, and shrinking her fierce little eyes to black pinpricks.

The daemon rustled her feathers happily and looked down at the window where Holmes leaned out, further than was really safe, glaring up at her.

"Are you quite finished?" He asked, pretending to be impatient, but she could see by the way he gripped the sill that he was uneasy. As if a distance of five yards was unusual. As though she would enjoy being so far up she might not want to come down again.

She launched herself out and down, swooping in to land on his arm, digging in with scaly, taloned claws that should have belonged to a dragon. She held on tighter than usual, but Holmes did not seem to mind as he drew her in and turned to Watson, who was just pulling on his coat.

It was always astonishing how neat and orderly Watson could make himself at any hour, even when he was still half asleep. Marjatta yawned at his feet nearly taking off his hand as he scratched her ear.

"Should you be leaning out the window like that with your bloody back?"

"It's feeling better." Holmes made for the door and let Watson follow.

"And stiffer I'll warrant."

"Like a brass bedstead." The detective muttered, exiting the front door and closing it softly behind them when they were all out. It was too early even for Mrs. Hudson to be up and about.

"How are we going to have another 'chat' with our friends?" Watson asked, watching a tired old horse pull his load through the empty street. "I doubt we'll get them alone in the pub…"

For answer Holmes removed a handkerchief from his pocket and held it up, smiling. "You heard me talking of that fellow's new boots last night, Watson. Truth be told I got a rather good look at them when he stamped on my chest—no don't scowl like that—no real damage and I managed to get an excellent soil sample."

Watson's face cleared at the sight of the dried, crumbling mud in the handkerchief. He had suffered through hours of Holmes' lectures on the different types of soils found in London.

"No doubt you know where his front stoop is then?"

Holmes signaled an early cab with a fresh, sprightly horse and climbed in.

"Not from the soil alone, he had a ticket in his front trouser pocket that had been liberally splashed with whiskey, last night before showing up to work he stopped and indulged himself at a local, unsavory, and relatively cheap establishment."

Watson climbed in after him and Marjatta followed, taking nearly the whole opposite seat herself.

"But if he went to this _establishment_ before the pub what good does that…"

"The jacket he wore at the pub was not the one he started the evening in, Watson. The ticket in his pocket originally resided in his breast pocket, by some accident the whiskey was spilled on his front and he transferred the sopping ticket to his trouser pocket in an effort to protect it."

"And then he changed his jacket?"

"Excellent," Holmes looked pleased. "and what does that tell us?"

"Well…he had to go to his lodgings to change."

The detective fairly beamed (without actually smiling) but his eyes were glittering and alive as they were only when on a case. "So simple, yes, he had to stop by his lodgings before he went to work and he had a very small time window between his entertainment and his work to do so. Which puts his lodgings between the two establishments and there is only one lodging house that has this exact blend of rubble, soil and excrement outside its front door."

"Goody." said Marjatta, wrinkling her snout at the filthy handkerchief Holmes' folded up and put inside his pocket.

"Don't be a snob," Cerridwyn clicked her beak. "You don't know when such evidence will come in handy."

"Is that why our lodgings are filled with severed ears and boxes of mold?" Watson asked, suffering the indignant glare of the little hawk.

Holmes paid no mind, already giving the name of the lodging house "Mrs. Bestew's," to the cabman.

Baker Street was not far from the east end of London so it was not a long drive. But both daemons were glad to stretch their legs (and wings respectively) when they arrived.

"Finally," the Lioness lashed her tail and the glint in her eyes was only matched by the focus of Cerridwyn. They were gentlemen's daemons, and so knew how to behave in public…but they were hunters by nature and their lust for adventure was shared by their humans.

Holmes stepped up to the door and charmed the elderly (nearly toothless) woman who answered it, into letting them enter.

They tramped over the distinctive soil onto the threadbare rug and into a dingy hall that was riddled with slats of wood, precariously built and obviously meant to be stairs.

And coming down the stairs, in yesterday's rumpled shirt and filthy trousers was the viscous little man from last night, chamberpot in hand.

His daemon spotted them first, leaping from his shoulders with wide eyes and bushy tail, trying to streak back up the steps. The man was quick to follow, taking the chamberpot with him.

Neither was fast enough to escape Cerridwyn's swoop at the cat. The daemon scrambled back to avoid her claws and tangled with the man's legs.

What happened was inevitable, bruising and very, very smelly.

Amid the landlady's shrieks at the mess and the villain's groans, Holmes smiled, stepped over a twitching leg and took hold of the man's arm.

"I say, Watson. Look at the frightful mess this fellow's created. Perhaps we'd better help him wash up."

The good Doctor's brows rose to his hairline, but game as ever he took the other arm, and between them they hauled him up, steered him out the door, down the steps and to the left side of the house…where a fetid water barrel stood.

The little man didn't have time (or breath) to cry out before they'd dropped him—seated— into the barrel where he stuck like a cork in a bottle up to his armpits.

His daemon yowled in protest and tried to circle round his legs, which dangled over the edge. It was a finicky dance because she had to avoid the other humans and the water at the same time.

The fellow spat, tried to pull himself up and slumped back, coughing and sputtering as more water splashed up over his face.

Holmes dusted his hands together.

"Now then, Mr. Cooper was it? Before I was so rudely interrupted last night. I believe I was asking you where…"

The man swore and struggled again to extricate himself, slopping more frigid water over the sides. Holmes stepped back to avoid getting his shoes splashed.

"…Where those children were likely to end up, and since I'm here I might as well add _when_?"

"Go to—"

Watson readily shoved the man's head down. His daemon spat and hissed clawing at the barrel.

Holmes shot him a look. "Really my dear fellow, that was rather gleeful."

Watson let Cooper up, and he sputtered again, violently. "His scalp needed scrubbing. Obvious evidence of lice…I'm a doctor."

"Beware the man who can use his credentials as well as his fists. Do you have a location in mind yet?"

This last was directed at their victim, whose lank hair was now plastered over his face. His clothes looked no better for the dunking. He spat and shook his head.

But he was already shivering and rather pale as he watched Watson glowering.

"You were clever." Holmes said, and it did sound like a near compliment. "You and your confederates were careful in the children you took. They had no real association, or worth to anybody. They would not be missed. Except for the few who had a very important, relatively unknown link with Sherlock Holmes."

Cooper's eyes turned from Watson and were now fixed upon the detective. It was possible, at the mention of the name, that his face had grown a shade paler. Certainly his daemon stopped circling his ankles.

His gaze flickered up to Cerridwyn, perched lightly on Holmes' shoulder, in her accurate, stately grey, not the street mud of last night. She looked ready to launch herself into the air, to hunt.

More than fear entered his eyes, more than annoyance. It was venom. And he cursed under his breath.

"You weasely nosing sod—"

Holmes took hold of the man's collar, his fingers tightened like iron and he lifted the man an inch or two.

"They are numbers, a quota to you. Not so to me. In fact they are invaluable and I intend to find wherever you've taken them…one way or another."

"Why should you care about a load of filthy little—"

Holmes let the man drop back into the barrel and held him there, eyes cold as the grey water around his hand. The wild-cat daemon was gasping and staggering at their feet.

When the detective let the Cooper emerge he was choking and retching, eyes red and face bloated.

"That is not the question," said Holmes calmly. "The _question_ is whether you care more about your employer's secrets, or yourself."

"I don't why he wants 'em!" The man sang, still spitting water. "I just bring—"

"Where?" The detective snarled and Cerridwyn's claws tightened painfully around his shoulder. "Tell me where and save me an hour of trouble and your own neck."

"I take 'em to the river!" Cooper spat. "They load 'em on a boat, I get paid and I goes."

"Paid how?"

"By the head, but they pay more for the ones with bigger daemons."

Beside him, Holmes heard Watson tense and Marjatta yowled in disgust, turning away to pace the alley.

"What is the name of the boat?" Holmes ignored his friend for now, shaking Cooper to keep his attention.

Cooper bit his tongue.

Watson stepped closer, stopping only when Holmes put a hand on his chest.

The kidnapper's eyes flicked to the doctor.

"It—"

"Aveescap," whimpered a small voice, and all eyes turned down to the wildcat cowering away from Marjatta.

"It's called the Aveescap," said the man's daemon again trying to hide behind the barrel. "It goes West along the river."

"How often?" asked Holmes, not the least bit nervous about questioning another man's daemon.

"It's come four times in the last two months. It's due again in a ten days."

"Name of the captain?"

"We don't ask names."

"How many boys have they taken?" Marjatta interupted.

"We don't keep count of the brats," the smaller daemon whimpered, wet and miserable. "Please."

"Shut your mouth," Holmes muttered. "If I hear of your involvement in this matter again, or anything like it, I'll have you for the yard. It doesn't matter what stinking hole you crawl off to."

He released Cooper's collar brushed his hand over Watson's shoulder and led the way out into the street.

"Holmes," the Doctor trotted to catch up to the long, purposeful stride of his friend. "Are you really going to let him go?"

"We have no evidence Watson. We can't get him convicted except for battery on my own person. And I do not intend to waste the time we have. We need to find that boat."

"Aveescap? I've never heard—"

"Avis Caput," Holmes corrected, dodging around a merchant with a suspicious tray of food, hardly breaking his fluid stride.

"You're familiar with it."

"I am familiar with the name, and if I am correct, then things are going to be much more difficult."

Marjatta, trotting at Watson's side, snorted. "Isn't it always?"

* * *

**A chamberpot is the victorian equivalent of a nighttime toilet…so yes, Holmes and Watson caught the poor guy with his trousers down. There, is that enough revenge for you guys? :D  
**


	10. Animal's Eyes

**"An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language." - Martin Buber**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was fond of his younger brother. It was not every day he met someone with the same level of intelligence as himself. From the very early years when Sherlock was a toddler and his daemon nothing more than a blur of forms and ridiculous energy, Mycroft had enjoyed his company. The hero-worship had been undeniably flattering.

But even the most tolerant of elder brothers can become exasperated, and it was much too early for Sherlock to be bursting into his offices at _this_ hour.

But burst Sherlock did, with undue haste and noise, past Mycroft's secretary and directly into Mycroft's office. Cerridwyn hopped down to the desk and began to peck at the papers piled there.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft swatted at the falcon with a folder.

"Forgive me, brother mine…I need some information."

"And just what is so remarkably urgent you couldn't wait to meet me at my club?" snapped the elder, slapping the folder onto his desk.

"This case has grown considerably more complicated."

"You've found out about Lord Cavery."

Sherlock scowled in that petulant manner he had never abandoned since the age of four. "And just when did you intend to inform me?"

"This afternoon," said Mycroft, pushing back his seat. "At a decent time."

"Then you know where he is, and what he is doing?"

The elder sighed and smoothed the front of his coat. "You always get me in an agitation when you shoot off at all ends like this."

"Where is he situated, Mycroft? And who is funding him?"

"I'm not certain I should tell you where…the circumstances is stickier than you realize, Sherlock."

"Who is funding him?" repeated the younger frowning. Instantly Mycroft was on his guard. Sherlock only frowned when something was obstructing him…nothing good ever happened to those obstructions…poor nanny.

"If you sit, I will tell you."

Sherlock swept his coat back and sat.

"Where is the Doctor?" asked Mycroft, noticing with some apprehension the obvious lack of large tawny feline in the room.

"At Baker street, packing. We are going to catch a train at Waterloo. It is at least obvious that we needed to go west. The boat they are using to cart away the boys comes and goes from the west end of the Thames. It's a small boat, so it can't be too far away from the city…"

While Sherlock railed off his list of nformation, Mycroft noted the soil on his shoes, the slight abrasions on his hand and the signs of dirty water on his shirt cuff.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, you didn't beat the man, did you?"

"Hardly," said Sherlock. "are you going to tell me who is funding him?"

"No one is funding Cavery. He's using his own money. What do you know about him?"

"Only that his family was heavily involved with the army and shipping to and from provinces in Africa. I recognized the name of his yacht at once.

"The Avis Caput."

"The same," Cerridwyn, somewhat placated, shuffled across the desk to hover over Angerona. Mycroft's daemon disliked the noise even more than he, and was curled as a tight ball of spikes.

"Did you also know that he was injured in the Boer war, badly enough to get him discharged before the bitter end?"

"Yes, Britain failed miserably, I am not completely unaware of the empire's dilemas," Sherlock gesticulated in the air, as though he could stir his brother to quicker action.

"He resented it," said Mycroft, ignoring his antics. "the fact that our own soldiers were unable to turn back the tide of Dutch civilians. He retaliated as you might suspect, immersing himself more deeply in military matters. At one time, and here is where I gained a lead o him, he tried to get funding from the military to create a training regime. They refused him, but they did allow him to make use of some of unused government ground in Hounselow heath."

Sherlock was frowning, but completely still now, thanks to the influx of information. "Hounslow heath…near the military complexes?"

"Cavalry and the like, yes," Mycroft nodded. "Watson could probably tell you more about it."

"How long has he been utilizing that area?"

"More than a year," Mycroft leaned forward anxiously. His little brother's eyes were growing distant and introspective; a sure sign that action was soon to follow. "And that is why the situation is so tricky, Sherlock. Whatever he is doing there is privately funded, by himself and perhaps some anonymous contributors. Her majesty's military does not sanction whatever it is he is doing…but they are not doing anything to stop it either."

"Do you know what he is doing?" asked Sherlock.

"There are no records, or reports, no. I only stumbled across his application for government funding. But I need not tell you whatever he is doing cannot be strictly legal…not if he is snatching children off the street."

"But because of his status there can be no police interference without significant evidence?"

"Precisely," said Mycroft, sitting back. "And he will do anything in his power to prevent that evidence coming to light. If it does he is potentially ruined. You see how uncertain the situation is and how _cautious you must be?"_

"When have you ever known me to act hastily? Especially when I have a lovely gray area to play in," said Sherlock with a slight smile at his elder Brother. "I suppose you'd like to go back to sorting out that business in Australia once more?"

"If you would be so kind?" Mycroft yanked a paper out from underneath Cerridwyn. She gave a satisfying squawk and tumbled near the edge of the desk. Sherlock moved automatically to catch her.

Anyone else would have missed the tightening around his eyes and the little hiss of breath between his teeth. Most would dismiss his straight back as good breeding…anyone but Mycroft really.

It was Angerona who rolled to her feet and crossed the desk to peer at the younger man and the unruly hawk daemon.

Black-bead eyes drilled intently into Sherlock, and Mycroft's voice crept over the sudden quiet. "You know I couldn't stand to see you thrashed, little brother?"

Sherlock turned to leave.

"As long as you remember…"

* * *

"Cavery? Yes he's familiar," Watson was unwrapping one of Mrs. Hudson's wax-paper packets. The train jostled and a sandwhich fell loose, tumbling to the floor. "Oh damn." He bent to retrieve it, but Marjatta snatched it up first, looking very self satisfied.

"Would you care to describe him?" Holmes asked.

"Young," said Watson. "Very young. He held an officer's position very early and then he caught a few bullets in Africa. Barely a year after I was invalided out. You can understand why I was interested in his story."

"Did he have a good reputation?"

Watson rolled his shoulders, a sign he was unsure how to proceed. It was against his nature to speak badly of any comrade in arms.

"He was hot-headed. But then who isn't at that age?"

"You have a temper, but you can easily be described as a gentleman, Watson," Holmes said. "Is Cavery uncouth?"

The doctor sighed and relented. "It's a good thing he was invalided out of the army. If he'd stayed in any longer he would have firmly established himself as ruthless and a cad. Mind you, that sort of thing is not uncommon…"

"There were incidents?"

"Several. From what I heard the man took every advantage he could over anyone of lower rank. And he considered most to be lower rank to him. He went through three batmen in a year."

Holmes nodded. "He was resentful of his dismissal?"

"Very. I mean who wouldn't be. But this lad protested roundly and threw his full weight into going back. He considered it something of a personal failure that the boers pushed us out and we haven't managed retaliated 'properly'. His father was what you might call a 'grand old soldier'. His family has had two feet in the military back to henry the V. If he'd fought against the Americans he would _still_ be railing against their revolution."

Holmes chuckled.

"A bloodthirsty little whelp," agreed Marjatta. She turned her gas-lamp eyes on the detective and spoke directly to him. "Why are we talking about him…is that where we are going? To speak to him?"

"Not exactly…"

Watson scowled around his sandwich.

Holmes relented. "Do you recall Cavery's family crest? A large bird's head."

Watson continued to chew.

"Oh come along, Watson. Your latin can't be that bad. The name of the yacht."

Watson choked.

"We're almost there, just a moment," Holmes poked his head out of the window. "Churrie!"

The little hawk ended her flight and alighted on the window. She looked at the coughing doctor and sighed. "What have you done to them now?"

* * *

**Apologies for my atrocious latin.**


End file.
